


A Game of Ice and Fire

by HowGameofThronesShouldHaveEnded



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Season/Series 07, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, Game of Thrones Alternate Season 08, Gen, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:48:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24075472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HowGameofThronesShouldHaveEnded/pseuds/HowGameofThronesShouldHaveEnded
Summary: An attempt at rewriting Season 7, 8, and maybe beyond...
Comments: 3
Kudos: 14





	1. The Child Wife - Prologue

Lord Walder hadn’t been himself. He seemed to have regressed several decades in the space of a week, with more energy and a different sense of humour. Not that Kitty was complaining, as Lord Walder hadn’t exerted any of this new energy into his duties as a husband. The memory of their first night of marriage still made her cringe, but never in front of a Frey, that would be seen as a slight on the Lords of the Riverlands, which would not do. The pride of the Crossing was as famed as the longevity of their, by now, twice-great grandsire.  
The latest symptom of his sudden personality change had been the calling of the very meal Kitty was now sat eating. In an uncharacteristic show of generosity, the second family gathering in as many weeks was a lavish affair by Frey standards, with ten courses planned: two starters, five main dishes, and three sets of sweet platters.  
Seven courses down, and the assembled Freys were starting to slur in movement and speech, as wine had been freely flowing all evening. As the plates were being cleared away from the final of the main dishes, salted trout on a bed of leeks, Lord Walder signaled for more wine to be served, before making to stand.  
“Now, you must all have questions, one of them being ‘What’s gotten into old Lord Walder? Two feasts in a fortnight?’ Well to that I say: what’s the point of being Lord Paramount of the Trident if you can’t treat your own family, heh? Now that winter has come, there are, however, going to be some changes around here. Black Walder and Lothar have gone walkabout, only the gods know where they are, so I need a new first advisor and a new commander of the army. But enough of that, heh? First, a toast!” By now, each son and grandson had a cup of wine, and one had been placed in front of Lord Walder himself. “To house Frey!”  
“We Stand Together!” The house words echo through the great hall.  
“Stand together, yes. Slaughtered the Starks, together. Murdered allies, together. Betrayed your king, together,” Some of the oldest and youngest in the room were starting to cough, so they sat down, “You stand together, and together, you fall.” A smile broke out on Lord Walder’s face. It wasn’t a smile Kitty had seen before. It was childish, awed, and gleeful.  
Around the room, the sons and grandsons of house Frey were clawing at their throats, drawing blood as their faces slowly went from red to purple to white.  
“You thought you were safe, free from the wolves you murdered. No, you were wrong. There were wolves still standing. And if you leave just one wolf alive, then the sheep can never be safe.” The last of the Freys slid to the floor, blood pooling from their eyes and noses.  
Lord Walder reached up to his hairline and ran his hand down his face. As he did, his features warped. The wrinkles melted, as did the harsh brow. His hooked nose flattened and smoothed out to reveal a young girl, a few years older than Kitty herself, who she turned to address.  
“When people ask you what happened here, tell them the North remembers. Tell them, winter came for house Frey.”  
With that done, the strange girl moved the great oak chair back and walked down from the dais. She strutted down the middle of the tables, not sparing a glance either way at the massacre she had just performed. In the space of a single evening, almost the entirety of the male line of house Frey had been scourged from the world, leaving only a few squalling babes and errant sons.  
Kitty stared around her at the serving girls, standing, as she was, in stunned silence.  
At the door, the girl turned her head.  
“Oh, and, don’t drink the wine.”  
She walked out of the door and turned right towards the southern exit.


	2. The Lone Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After enacting her first revenge, Arya heads south.

As her newly acquired horse trotted down the snowladen track, Arya took a moment to smile to herself. Another name off her list, but there were more to come. If Jaime Lannister was still alive, that meant Cersei was too, and if the rumours were true, she’d made a lot more enemies recently. That had the potential to open some doors that would otherwise have to be forced. The roads were practically deserted, only two families had passed her, going south with more urgency than she was moving. That was good, too, gave her an excuse to enter the city.

Arya felt for her bag, accounting for all the vials individually. All present and correct, she could identify them all by shape. Next, she moved onto the faces. She’d picked nondescript faces, a couple of Essosi, a couple of Westerosi, and now she had added Walder Frey to the set. She had expected it to feel different wearing his face than the serving girl had, but it hadn’t. She had still felt slightly numb the whole time, as if it really was happening to another person, but other than that she was still Arya the whole time. It was still Arya who had poisoned the wine. It was still Arya who had watched the Freys die slow, painful deaths. And it would be Arya Stark, daughter of Lord Eddard Stark, that would watch the life leave the eyes of Cersei Lannister. And then, she would rest. Justice would be served.

Arya spurred her horse forwards, keen to get as far as possible before nightfall. She would make camp in one of the many abandoned houses along the road. With the advent of winter, it seemed all the smallfolk who could were moving south. As she trotted, the verse of a song wafted through the air towards her.

_ He rode through the streets of the city _

_ Down from his hill on high _

_ O'er the wynds and the steps and the cobble _

_ He rode to a woman's sigh _

As she rode closer, she slowed her horse down to a walk. Through the trees and the snow, she could see a group of men around a fire. One of them, with a shock of auburn hair, was singing. She dismounted, tied her horse to a nearby tree, and crept towards them.

_ For she was his secret treasure _

_ She was his shame and his bliss _

_ And a chain and a keep are nothing _

_ Compared to a woman's kiss _

When she got nearer, she could make out their armour. Lannister red, with golden lions on the shoulders. She could also distinguish their faces now in the light of the fire. There were five of them, all within a few years of her own age, little more than boys at the outbreak of war.

_ For hands of gold are always cold _

_ But a woman's hands are warm _

_ For hands of gold are always cold _

_ But a woman's hands are warm _

It wasn’t a song she recognised, and it was sweet yet sorrowful. She moved out from behind the tree, making herself visible to them.

“You there, come and sit.” She hesitated, wary of anyone wearing the lion of Lannister.

“Come on,” the redheaded one said, turning to face her, “we’re not nearly as fearsome as the lion would have you believe.” He smiled, and the other four laughed quietly. She approached, and the scent of roasted rabbit found her nose.

“That was a pretty song, I’ve not heard it before.” She ventured, sitting on a log.

“The pretty ones never are as well-known, but they’re oft better. A friend of mine taught me it a couple of years back, before he disappeared. Reckon it’s about the Queen and her brother, that business about golden hands.”

“Not a very Lannister thing to say.” The remark had shocked her, not least because she had missed that little rumour. But it had confirmed her suspicions: not only was Cersei still alive, but she had somehow become Queen.

“Good thing we’re not Lannisters then. We abandoned the camp one night on the way back from Riverrun. We was mad we had to help give the Frey’s Riverrun, they don’t desrve it. Besides, we reckon they’re not gonna miss five footsoldiers.” The others nodded in agreement.

“What will you do now?”

“Edd here figures we could find a ship to the Free Cities.” The soldier on the other side of the ginger, Edd, ruffled Edd’s hair.

“No-one else put forward any ideas.” He laughed, batting away his friend’s arm.

“Anyway, don’t you mean Queen Regent?” Arya ventured. It could be that these smallfolk simply didn’t know the correct terminology.

“Nah, word is Tommen died when the Great Sept blew up. Apparently Cersei’s set herself up as Queen.” One of the nameless ones said. Well, that certainly gave her plans some… extra ramifications. No matter, the Seven Kingdoms were apparently growing accustomed to power vacuums. Each time a monarch died, there would always be someone to take over that disgusting chair. It made no matter to Arya. Whoever sat it next would undoubtedly be a vast improvement on at least three of the last five rulers, but she didn’t plan on seeing them.

“What do we care who sits the throne? We’re off across the sea.”

“Not today though, I’m half asleep as it is.” One of the other four yawned, moving to unroll a roughspun blanket.

“What are you doing?” Arya asked.

“Getting to sleep. Trying, at least.” He replied. The others were starting to do the same.

“We walk down this road for no great length of time, we find an abandoned house.” She explained, starting to get up. They didn’t need to know about the horse. The two boy soldiers who had started bedding down wrapped their blankets back up. Edd kicked the fire, then picked up a still-burning log.

“Lead the way, m’lady.” Edd said.

“I’m no bloody lady.” Arya retorted, stalking off through the trees.

She started walking down the road, letting the soldiers catch up in their own time. The road was even more deserted at this late hour, and the winter snows were building up on either side in drifts as high as her shoulder. Then again, they could be bushes. Sure enough, after walking no more than 500 feet, an inn loomed over the top of the hill.

“Where you from? Sounds like the Riverlands, but not really.” Edd had caught up to her.

“You’re about right there. My mother was from the Riverlands, married a Northman.” Stick to the story. If it fooled the great Tywin Lannister into willful ignorance, it would fool five footsoldiers.

“Was?” He wasn’t likely to let it go, bless him.

“Listen, after the morning, we’re never gonna see each other again, so there’s no reason to get cosy. So if you lot don’t ask about me, I won’t ask about you.” With that, she hiked purposefully up the hill, away from the summer knights.

By the time they caught up with her, she had already gotten a fire going in the main hearth and taken herself to an upstairs room with a lockable door and an easy drop from the window, so as not to disturb them in the morning. She left them to their fire and laughter, and slipped under the woolen bedcovers. Her last thought before sleep was of wine and blood pooling on flagstones.

_ Cersei's next.  _


	3. The Queen Regnant

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, in King's Landing...

“The Great Sept of Baelor!” Jaime shouted. He stood on the other side of the table.

“What happened was a tragic accident, which cost us the leader of the Faith, the Lord of Highgarden and his children, our uncle, our cousin, and our last son, the King of the Seven Kingdoms.”

“You expect me to believe that a green explosion from under the second largest building in the city wasn’t caused by wildfire, the existence of which is only known by perhaps four people…” Jaime trailed off, something that could be horror coming over his face. One of the other two people that Jaime knew about must have been their monster of a brother.

“Was  _ he _ one of them?” She refused to say his name, lest he find another way to hurt her. No, that was impossible. She didn't have his head, but there was no chance that he had survived this long, not with his venomous tongue. 

“Tyrion wouldn’t do something like this.” Cersei saw her chance to absolve herself.

“Wouldn’t he? He did the same on the Blackwater, he’s wanted us dead more times than he’s drawn breath. He made it very clear when he left that he doesn’t care who gets hurt in his thirst for Lannister blood.” Cersei could almost hear Jaime’s mind going over the facts, slotting them into his own conclusions. It was effortless.

“If you’re done anguishing over the machinations of that  _ creature _ , I have my coronation to attend.” Cersei walked out from behind the table and towards the door.

With Tommen a broken corpse probably being burned on her orders as we speak (tears are a weakness), there was a certain chair which needed an occupant. Seeing as there were no Baratheons left, the seemingly cursed title of king could die with him. As Tommen’s closest living relative, it was only proper for Cersei to be the successor.

Qyburn and six of the Kingsguard were waiting at the doors to the throne room. Qyburn was dressed in a black woollen robe, having refused anything else. 

_ "A reminder of my beginnings, if it please your Grace."  _

On the other side of the heavy oak doors were the remaining high lords and ladies of the Crownlands, all waiting for her.

“All rise!” Came a voice from the throne room. The heavy doors swung open, revealing her to the masses. The men of the City Watch formed two columns up the centre of the room, facing inwards as to block the crowd, their cloth-of-gold cloaks shimmering in the afternoon sun as it streamed through the windows. As always, the nobles of importance were standing on the main floor area; royal guests, families of courtiers and the like, with those of lesser note taking the gallery to the side. The room was deathly silent as she made her way to the dais, her black floor-length gown wafting after her.

She’d had it made especially. The silver filigree lions on her shoulders, the collar studded with silver spikes, the pewter studs on the bodice, the black silk embroidered with lions. All had been designed to inspire fear, while still being beautiful yet mournful, as was expected of her.

She climbed the steps to the throne, where a trembling septon stood with her crown on a cushion. That, too, had been carefully crafted by the finest metalworkers left in the city. An abstraction of a lion’s mane sat at the front of a circlet of interwoven silver bands. The lion’s crown, at last.

The septon shuffled forwards once she had turned to him and knelt on one knee.

“Do you, Cersei of the house of Lannister, widow of King Robert, first of his name, mother to King Joffrey and King Tommen, first of their names, swear to defend the Seven Kingdoms?”

“I do.” They would have to tear her corpse from the throne if they wanted it.

“Do you swear to uphold the laws of gods and men, in all your power?”

“I swear it.” The gods? What did they matter any more? The High Sparrow and all his wretched followers had perished in their own funeral pyre. 

“Do you swear to protect all your people, highborn and lowborn, from this day, until the end of your days?”

“I swear it by the light of the seven.” The newly devout among her audience would appreciate that. She could almost see His High Holiness smiling down on her. Almost. She could, however, picture the flesh boiling from his bones, and his bones turning to ash the instant the blazing wildfire touched his skin. It would have been the same for that whore Margaery, and her hair would have disappeared instantaneously. If only she could do the same to  _ him _ .

“May you have the just mind of the Father, the mercy of the Mother, the courage of the Warrior, and the wisdom of the Crone, for all your days.” He picked up the crown in one hand, and an attendant took the cushion from him, so he could hold the crown in both hands. He stood over her and placed the crown on her head.

“Arise.” She stood to her full height. The septon turned to the crowd.

“I now proclaim Cersei of the House of Lannister, the First of Her Name, Queen of the Andals and the First Men, Lady Protector of the Realm, Serene Highness of the Seven Kingdoms . Long may she reign!”

“Long may she reign!” The crowd echoed.

_ Long shall I reign.  _ Cersei thought, barely containing the self-satisfied smile threatening to burst forth. She felt a pair of eyes burning into the side of her head, so she turned to the gallery. Jaime was stood there, his face unreadable.

_ Let him sulk,  _ she thought,  _ he’ll come round when he’s given something to do. _

She let what she thought would be a warm smile grace her face, a show of geniality to her subjects. That triggered a peal of applause through the crowd, and they started to repeat themselves. It was perhaps somewhat sparser than it perhaps could have been, but there was a rather prominent reason for that. Still, they seemed to accept her. It certainly helped that the septon had introduced her in relation to the three previous kings, allowing them all to reach their own justifications.

She let the applause swell for a few moments, before raising a hand to silence the crowd.

“This is indeed a great and solemn honour. I have sworn to defend the realm, and I shall. We have experienced a truly tragic attack in our own city. The Great Sept was a beacon of faith for us all, a great symbol of the realm, and now the final resting place of some of the great and noble houses. This will not go unpunished. I swear to you all, I will defend you from those who would see the realm fall in the same way. I will crush the enemies, and I will bring you justice for our friends and fallen allies. You have my word, as your queen, that I shall not rest until all our foes are sitting in the seventh hell."

Cersei stepped back, allowing another wave of adulation to wash over her. Of course, most of that was true, but she was going to crush  _ her _ enemies, not  _ their _ enemies. The realm could burn for all she cared, just as long as she could rule the ashes. Ruling was, after all, all she had left. It had cost her three children, but they were gone (tears are a weakness), and she remained. So much for the younger, more beautiful queen. Ash and dust could never match her. 

She turned, striding towards the door behind the throne.  _ My throne.  _ She reminded herself, as she walked through, followed by her Queensguard and Qyburn, who strode to catch up to her. 

"Your Serene Highness." He bowed. Cersei thought she could get used to that. 

"Qyburn," She replied, indicating he should walk with her, "as some of the Small Council were unfortunately caught up in the frightful destruction of the Sept, I am in need of some new councillors." 

"I will see to it at once, Serene Highness." 

"Perhaps I should speak more plainly. As my only trustworthy and loyal advisor, I can see no better candidate to be my Hand." 

"Ser Jaime?" He enquired, raising an eyebrow. 

"Is a skilled fighter and battle commander, no-one can deny that, but he has no head for politics. He will be my Master of War, but you will wear the badge." Cersei started walking towards her chambers, where she knew Jaime would be waiting. 

"I should inform you, Serene Highness, that Lord Bolton is dead, and Jon Snow and Sansa Stark now sit at Winterfell." Qyburn called after her. It seemed there was a war to plan. 


	4. The White Wolf

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Having defeated the Bolton army, the Stark forces celebrate their victory.

Once the last of the funeral pyres had burnt itself out, the survivors gathered in the Great Hall. Wine was being poured after a modest, if jovial, feast from the winter stores, and a lot of the men were several drinks in.

At the centre of the long table placed in front of the hearth, Jon Snow sat contemplating what would happen next.  _ With the Boltons gone _ ,  _ now I can focus attentions back north.  _ He knew he would need a lot more than an eleventh-hour rescue to defeat the White Walkers, and their forces were greatly depleted. 

His thoughts were interrupted by Lord Darwyn Hornwood, who scraped his chair as he stood up and raised his cup. 

"To Jon Snow, the man who slew the Mad Dog of Bolton," Jon looked to his left, sending Sansa an apologetic smile, "avenger of the Red Wedding, and I have half a mind to claim you the bloody King." 

The crowd cheered at that. 

"KING IN THE NORTH! KING IN THE NORTH!" 

_ King in the North? With four words they would give me such power? A bastard son, while a trueborn daughter sits beside me?  _

Jon stood up, raising a hand. "My lords, my ladies, you honour me beyond words, but I cannot accept," there was a ripple of noise through the assembled knights and commanders. His next words would need to be careful, "the North remains divided, and while there is dissent and revolt, we cannot call ourselves a kingdom. Winterfell is only the beginning. I must win back the whole North to be worthy of being your king." 

“Your Grace, the North is as large as the other six kingdoms combined! It’d take months to gain favour with all the houses.” Lord Petyr Baelish, the one Sansa had brought with the Knights of the Vale, spoke up from his seat next to Sansa.

“He don’t need every house. Traitors and cravens the lot of them.” Lord Hornwood shouted from his right.

“With respect, the four houses here, along with the freefolk, cannot hope to hold the North should there be an uprising.”

"And we have the support of the Vale, should there be trouble." Sansa added, nodding at Lord Royce, the other Vale Lord, who was sat beside Lord Baelish, and didn't look at all pleased about it. He seemed to have other ideas about the Knights of the Vale. 

"With respect, my lady, the Knights of the Vale are better served protecting our own lord and lands." 

"Lord Royce, with winter now upon us, it would be foolish to march our army back to the Vale." 

_ Why are they deciding this now? This isn't a Northern matter.  _

"My Lords, you can settle this matter privately. What matters now is uniting the North, the  _ whole  _ North. Our enemies require our full force to stop." 

"Aye, the Lannisters are a vicious house." Agreed Lady Mormont's commander. 

_ Let them think I mean the Southroners, the White Walkers can come later.  _

"I mean to treat with all Northern lords, not just those who refused to fight or were under Bolton rule.” Many lords were simply too far away to treat with at the time, but the North would need to be as united as possible to face the Army of the Dead. This wasn't a fight over who owed fealty to whom. 

"If there is no other business, I will leave you to your merriment," he turned to either side of him, "Ser Davos, Lady Sansa, if you would please follow me." 

With that, he left the hall, Sansa and Davos trailing behind him. He walked into the room he had made his strategy room. 

"Close the door behind you Davos." He turned to face them both, standing on the other side of a small table with a sheepskin map of the North painted on it. 

“Jon, what just happened?” Sansa asked, getting straight to the heart of the matter.

“Just battle weary drunkards, I should think. Nothing more, my lady.” Davos chuckled lightly.

“They say wine reveals the true hearts of men. They may not remember much from tonight, but they will remember the slight on their pride. We Northerners are slow to forget.” Sansa pressed.

“I’m a bastard, why me?”

“You’re a hero. Men love to follow heroes.” Sansa replied, shrugging her shoulders.

“So, is this where we plan where to go when?” Davos steered the conversation. He seemed a good man to Jon, and had proved useful in preparing for the recent battle.  _ Stannis must have had his reasons.  _

"Davos, you seem to have a talent for words, you will accompany me." He nodded, Sansa shook her head. 

"So you're actually going through with this," it wasn't a question, "Jon, there is no need to curry favour with every lord in the North. Let Maester Wolkan send a raven to them all, summoning them to swear fealty to us. Those that come, come. Those that don't, well they can get through winter on their own." 

"Sansa, this is about more than fealty. It's more than just loyalty, it's survival." 

Sansa rolled her eyes subtly, though Jon still caught the motion. "Right, the Army of the Dead."  _ Why do you still not believe?  _

"When the Night King comes, the North will be the the last line of defence. We need to be ready. We can't afford to leave anyone behind to feed his army." 

"The last line of defence, you say. We still have the first line. His march will stop at the Wall, no matter the numbers. Let us deal with Cersei first, before she decides to deal with us. Believe me, that won't be long, especially once she hears it's us sitting in Winterfell."

"You know Cersei, but I know the Night King. I have seen him raise thousands of corpses from the dead to turn into his footsoldiers. Gods know what power he possesses. For all we know, he could bring the whole Wall down with a single touch." 

"But he might not. Cersei is a known quantity, and a very real threat." 

Davos cleared his throat. "If I may be allowed to speak." 

Sansa smiled at him. Even Jon allowed himself a smirk. The older man was still largely a stranger to them both, but he had a simple honesty and charm to him. 

"Of course, you are my advisor." 

"It seems to me that you're limiting yourselves. King - apologies - Stannis was a great man, but inflexible. He had his goal, and was so bloody-minded in his pursuit that I had to practically force him to come to your aid at the Wall. His rigidity and focus cost him his family, his life, and his crown. Yet you are two people, and Stannis was not. Lady Sansa, let your brother go to his lords and prepare for the Night King. While he is doing that, you can prepare for Cersei and winter. Play to your strengths, and we might just survive whatever comes our way, from whichever direction."

Sansa considered this for a moment, before laying her hands on the table. 

"Very well, shall we begin?" 

_ This is going to take some time. _


	5. The Spider

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And in Dorne, a spider starts to spin his web...

Even in winter, Dorne was warm. This far south, he could still wear the silks and velvets he was accustomed to. To hopefully please his Dornish audience, Varys was dressed in orange, red and gold, reminiscent of the Martell sigil. Varys dipped his hand into a bowl of water, then flicked it into his own face. He then walked through the curtain onto a raised platform above the central pavilion in the Water Gardens. There was much chatter and confusion in the crowd, and many were asking why they had been summoned, especially by the Queen of Thorns, the Tyrell matriarch without a family. 

_ Making this invasion into less of an invasion is going to be rather difficult.  _ He sighed, and motioned to a servant beside him. The young boy picked up a gong, and dropped it on the floor. The metal disk let out an almighty sound, and all the lords and nobles assembled below turned abruptly to face him at his elevated position. Varys winced at the noise. 

"A touch unrefined, perhaps, but undoubtedly effective." He smiled at the lords, then at the young servant. 

"My lords, I stand before you today with a matter of great urgency and subtlety."

He stepped forward, down the few steps to the wide and cool pavilion. All the major lords and ladies of Dorne had been summoned, ostensibly by Olenna Tyrell, and now they all stood in between the pools and streams of the Water Gardens. The location had been chosen as a place of neutrality, and the water went some way to reducing the heat in the air. Varys now stood at the head of the crowd, at the bottom of the steps. To one side of him sat Lady Olenna, dressed in all black and staring impassively at the crowd. On the other, Ellaria Sand and the three eldest Sand Snakes lounged against a wall. 

"The realm is bleeding and divided, but only one Dornish life had been lost, your dear Prince Oberyn, until the devastating death of Prince Doran and his son Trystane." 

"It was murder!" Shouted Lord Yronwood, a fierce Martell bannerman. He would, of course, need placating if this venture was to have any success. 

"It was a horrendous and undeserving end for the ruling Prince of Dorne and his only heir." That would silence Lord Yronwood. If what Varys had heard was true, as it most often is, Doran’s first son Quentyn has been sent by Lord Yronwood, under Prince Doran's orders, to Slavers Bay. The true reason died with Quentyn, however, as he never got further than Volantis. Lord Yronwood's own son and heir has also died on the trip, so a subtle reminder of that was enough to bring his grief afresh. 

"Such as it was, it was also the unfortunate end of House Martell, who have ruled Dorne since the Age of Heroes. The Sand Snakes attempted leadership, but they have no legitimacy, and no hope of a successful dynasty, so now, like a ship whose captain fell overboard, a new leader must be chosen, and a new ruling house made."

All the lords and ladies looked around furtively, none of them wanting to be the first to claim what they all desired. 

Lord Yronwood, unsurprisingly, was the first to speak up. 

"And why should we listen to you? You’re not on the Small Council of the King, or Queen for that matter. Who are you now but a foreign eunuch, denounced as a traitor by the Iron Throne, conspiring with murderers and traitors?" Varys prickled at that, a lifetime of the same insults hadn't made him immune to them. He could, in time, forgive, but he would not forget, never. 

"My lord, I come to Dorne not as a traitor, or as the former Master of Whispers, but as an envoy. Cersei Lannister is a tyrant, drunk on power as much as wine, and determined to hold it for as long as possible, no matter the cost to the realm. She sees enemies at every turn, and it will not be long before she turns her eye on you. It is up to you what she sees. A cowed land, sitting on its hands, a region in chaos with no leadership, or a true threat, allied with a great conqueror and liberator?"

"And you would put some foreign warlord on the throne? Dorne did not bow to Aegon, we will not bow today." 

"What about Aegon's ancestor? A Targaryen with three dragons at her side, the greater strength of the Iron Fleet, and, rarer than those, a good heart. Thanks to her, slavery is a dying practise in Essos. And now, Daenerys Targaryen makes for Westeros, to claim her birthright and free the people from a tyrant's claws."

At that moment, Olenna Tyrell stood up and walked over to stand next to Varys. 

"I don't trust the Dornish, I won't deny that, and I don't know this Daenerys girl, save for the rumours one hears at court. But I hate Cersei even more. She stole my future from me, so now I am willing to ally under the Targaryen banner, as we did during the Rebellion."

A dark haired lady stepped out of the crowd. It was Allyria Dayne, youngest sister of Arthur and current Lady of Starfall. She turned to the assembled. 

"My lords, I beseech you. My brother, the last Sword of the Morning, defended this girl's father, mother, and brother until his dying breath. And as much as it took a great man to depose King Aerys, it may take a great woman to depose Cersei. I say we join with the Reach, make common cause with Daenerys, and help nurse the realm back to health."

She stepped back, blushing all the while, as if her mere presence were enough to offend. Lord Manwoody and Lord Fowler went to stand beside Allyria. 

"My lady speaks well and true. We mislike the Lannister lioness, but we are powerless to defend without a leader, let alone attack. I would name Lady Allyria the new Princess of Dorne, to rule with wisdom and justice in the troubled times ahead." Lord Manwoody spoke from his place beside the Lady of Starfall. The hand on his sword acted as an implication all on its own. 

Several of the assembled nodded slowly, and even Ellaria Sand softened her seemingly permanent scowl into a pout. Only Lord Yronwood seemed to bristle, evidently thinking he would be given the honour. He eyed up the crowd, and any thought of challenge died in his eyes as he scanned. 

"If my lady would accept the honour?" Varys ventured. 

"I am humbled and honoured my lords, truly, and I only hope I will not fail you."

This was enough for the assembled lords and knights to draw their weapons and lay them down at her feet in the Westerosi mark of fealty. The formalities could come later. Varys smiled to himself.  _ My work here is almost done.  _

"Princess, may I present your first order of business: what to do with the would-be usurpers." Ellaria Sand and the three Sand Snakes looked up at that, and stared daggers, or rather, spears, at Varys. 

"The truth does tend to sting, my ladies." he shrugged at them, before turning back to the new Crown Princess of Dorne. 

"This is not a matter of public discussion. Ser Dalt, make preparations in Planky Town for Daenerys. Lord Varys, how many ships can we expect?" 

"Only the one for the moment." Tyrion had decided to leave the bulk of the fleet around Lys and the westernmost of the Stepstones until a sure foothold is secured in Westeros. 

"Then preparations should not take too long. My lords and noble sers, we may have need of soldiers. Call the spears, but as discreetly as possible. The Iron Throne must not know what we're doing. That is all for now." she turned on the crowd, striding past Varys and Olenna into the building behind them. At the top of the steps, she turned to them both. 

"Well, are you coming or not?" she smiled, a genuine, warm smile. 

_ She's perfect.  _


	6. The Stray Dog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Brotherhood Without Banners makes a stop, and a plan.

They wound their way down the hill, avoiding snow drifts and pitfalls, seven thin horses suffered under the weight of their riders. One suffered more than the others. 

"Fucking hate winter." Sandor mumbled more or less to himself. 

"It's only going to get worse now." Thoros chipped in cheerily. 

"Oh, did that god of yours whisper that in your ear last night? 'It's getting colder Thoros, no need to look outside, I can tell you the weather five feet in front of your fucking face.' The fuck are we even doing?" Sandor shouted that last bit. They had been riding all day, and he hurt for it. 

"Waiting." Beric replied, as if that was the perfect answer. 

"Seems to be a lot of bloody waiting with you lot. What are we even waiting for? You said I had a purpose, well I'm yet to fucking  _ do _ anything except riding this horse." 

"The visions aren't clear, but one day soon…" Thoros trailed off, as he was wont to do. Some days he spoke less than Beric, which was saying something. 

"Never a straight fucking answer." Sandor muttered under his breath, though not quiet enough to be entirely to himself. 

As the road wound round, a small house could be seen. It was rather worse for wear, and there was no smoke coming from the chimney.

“This will do. We don't need much except rest." Beric decided. 

"They don't want us, they can't afford to keep one of us for a night, let alone seven of us." Sandor hesitated. Somewhere far back in his mind, he recognised the cottage. 

_ You're the worst shit in the Seven Kingdoms!  _ A petulant little girl yelled at him from that same dark corner. 

"If they have enough for themselves, they have enough to spare us one night." Beric's squire piped up. A stubbornly cheery youth, with white-blond hair and deep blue eyes, he was either simple, or in very deep denial. 

"There should be a village not too far, let's rest there." Sandor insisted.  _ Can't defend himself…  _ an echo of his own voice whispered in the back of his mind. 

"For a man as big and ugly as you, you scare easy. Something wrong, Clegane?" Thoros jabbed, smiling wearily. 

“Nothing scares me. And the only thing wrong here is this weather and your hair. You’re not fooling anyone with that ridiculous fucking thing.” Sandor snapped, annoyed he'd been rattled by seeing the deserted house, annoyed that he had been visibly shaken.

They approached, and it became obvious that the house hadn’t been lived in for many moons, maybe even a couple of years.

“Well, shelter’s shelter.” Beric mused, slipping off his horse and striding into the house. Sandor did the same, pushing past Thoros to get in first. He took a morsal of satisfaction from the action, though he didn't really know why. Lost in this thought, he walked straight into Beric, who was still practically in the doorway. He was staring at the corner of a raised stone plinth, likely where the lone bed was. On it, sitting upright against the wall, were two half-rotted bodies. A little girl and her father. Dried blood covered them both. 

"How do you think it ended for them?" Beric asked, dense as ever. Perhaps some of his brain hadn't come back one of the fuck-knows-how-many times he'd been revived. 

"The same way it does for all of us, well, 'cept those with a pet priest. Death. Could be they starved, could be he ended it before it got that bad. Not that it matters now."  _ They'll both be dead come winter.  _ At some point, you've got to start to hate being right all the damn time. 

"I don't suppose it does." Beric agreed, sagely. 

"You're not bad, Beric. Bit dull and sanctimonious, perhaps, but I don't hate you." Sandor turned to him. 

"Is that a compliment from the Hound? Is this going somewhere or have you just gone soft?" Beric smiled, something that would probably have been quite nice to look at before he'd been resurrected over and over. 

"Fuck off. My point is, why are you alive and he's not?" he indicated the body of the farmer. Beric shrugged. 

"Our Lord-" 

" _ Your _ Lord, not mine." Sandor corrected. 

"He's your lord whether you know it or not. He works in mysterious ways, not always clearly. But this I know: he's not done with me yet, or I'd be dead." 

"Clegane, over here." Thoros had gotten a fire going in the hearth, and was staring deeply into it. 

"My fucking luck to fall in with a bunch of fire worshippers." Sandor mumbled. 

"Could say it’s divine justice." Thoros quipped. Sandor just snorted at the contradiction in terms and walked over to the fire, keeping his distance. 

"Come on, it won't bite you." 

"Fuck off." he crouched down behind Thoros and peered into the flames. 

“What can you see?” Thoros asked.

“Logs, fire, embers and ash.” That was all there was. But as he looked, the flames changed into shapes.

“Wait. There's… something. A huge wall of ice. It's cracked and scarred. And there's a mountain, shaped like an arrowhead. And dead bodies arranged in a spiral. A single clawing hand of bones." Sandor backed away. 

"So that's where we shall go." Beric said, as if that gave all the answers, once again. 

"What the fuck was that?" Sandor asked, breathing heavily. 

"The Lord of Light has given you a vision," Thoros smiled grimly, "our purpose is made clearer."

Something in the red priest had changed with the onset of winter. It might have been the absence of the warmth he worshipped, but every movement seemed more laboured. 

"How the fuck has that made anything clearer?" Sandor snorted. He'd never understood people who turned to faith. Why worship something that willingly made the world a shit place. If there was a god, it wasn't a nice god. 

"A wall of ice? That's  _ the  _ Wall. Something beyond the Wall is stirring, maybe the Great Other, and we have to find and stop it.” Beric moved into the light, the flames casting gaunt shadows across his face. He looked about as corpse-like as he ever had.

“You’re saying we have to get past the fucking Wall? How are we supposed to manage that? Knock politely at Castle Black? ‘Scuse me, Lord Commander, do you mind if we just pop through the Wall?’ Don’t fucking think so some how.” Sandor had almost had enough of this.

“Clegane, if we don’t do anything with this knowledge, it could mean the end of civilisation.”

_ What’s so good with civilisation?  _ Sandor thought, but thought better of voicing this.

“S’pose you’ve got a point.”

“First light, we make for the Neck.” Beric announced, slightly louder than the murmur they had been a moment before. 


	7. The Winter Songbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> At Winterfell, the game starts to be played...

“Lord Baelish, what a surprise.” Sansa smiled at the man who had just entered her chambers unannounced. He moved to sit opposite her, in the vacant hair once favoured by her mother. Jon had been satisfied with taking Robb’s old chambers, leaving her the choice of her old chambers, or the ones once occupied by her mother and father. Given the events that had taken place in her room at the hands of Ramsay Bolton (always a Snow to her), she decided to move her modest possessions into her parents’ old rooms.

“My Lady, forgive my intrusion, b-” she cut him off.

“I’ve noticed, Lord Baelish, that you often seem to be asking my forgiveness as of late.” She fixed him with a smile that she knew didn’t reach her eyes. Not many of her smiles did these days.

“I have always felt it better to act and ask for forgiveness, than it is to ask permission, and lose the element of surprise.” Lord Baelish had often spouted such generalisations at her. Useful for when skulking and lying, not so much when she was safe and home. Well, as safe as anyone can be.

“Knocking is but a harmless courtesy, My Lord. It is of no matter,” she cut in before he could reply. She was growing tired of the ageing man, more salt than pepper in his hair as of late. “What is the reason for your visit?”

“My Lady, we have not spoken since the battle, I wasn’t privy to the meeting with your half-brother and his advisor. An oversight, I’m sure.” He smiled that half-smile she had seen many times, often levelled at those with power over him. Sansa would be almost flattered, if she didn’t know the fate that tended to befall those Littlefinger smiled at.

“My brother doesn’t know you, and he can’t trust who he doesn’t know. In time, he may learn to trust you as I do.”

“You flatter me, My Lady.”  _ It was not meant as flattery, you weasel. _

“Was there anything else, Lord Baelish?” Sansa tilted her head. She had much to prepare, and this was only delaying her.

“Your half brother, Jon Snow.” She could tell what was coming. “Do you know if he intends to take up the throne?” This they had discussed briefly last night, while planning their next moves. Jon was reluctant to accept, but he knew what refusal would mean to the proud lords of the North.

“He has decided to consider it greater if they ever deign to crown him sober.” A half-truth was always better than a lie, wasn’t that what he’d taught her?

“A simple man, by all accounts,” he mused, “very much his father’s son.” Sansa hoped that wasn’t exactly true. She hoped that Jon would be more wary.

“Tully blood is known to be strong.” She smiled. Baelish wouldn’t be swayed.

“Almost as stubborn, too. Word is that while at Castle Black he caused a mutiny that tried to murder him.” Another half-truth Sansa had been only too willing to tell. Jon had, of course, told her the real story as much as he could, with Davos and the wildling Tormund filling in the gaps. The Red Witch had been at the feast last night, but Sansa had not seen her at breakfast. Perhaps she had taken it in the camps.

“He had them all hanged the next day, so he’s no fool.” Littlefinger would do well to keep that in mind.

“Indeed. And the way the soldiers talk, he’s a fine swordsman.”

“Is there a point to this, My Lord?” Sansa tilted her head, staring impassively at the man opposite her. Before he had a chance to elaborate, there was a knock at the door.

_ Thank the gods. _

“You may enter.” she called. The door opened and the head of a guard pushed through. Sansa recognised him as one that had come over to them from Ramsay.

“Milady, Milord. Sorry to trouble you, but you wished to be informed when Lady Brienne arrived.”

“And what of my uncle, the Blackfish?” Sansa had hoped that their absence was explained by winter snows.

“She would not say, milady.” The guard frowned.

“Lord Baelish, if you will excuse me.” Sansa didn’t wait for his reply before rising and going to the door. She stopped and turned to the guard.

“Where may I find her?” She enquired.

“The Great Hall, milady. Will you need escorting?”

“Winterfell is not new to me, I believe I know the way.” she smiled, “Lord Baelish, on the other hand, may need help. Please escort him to where he wants to go, then return to your post.”

Sansa walked off in the direction of the Great Hall, lost in thought. Brienne was wise not to say why her uncle was not with her, but that did not mean that Sansa wasn’t worried.

She passed through the door to the Great Hall, and despite herself she smiled.

“Lady Brienne, Podrick.” She acknowledged Brienne’s squire, who she vaguely knew from her days in King’s Landing.

“Podrick, see to our horses.” Brienne nodded to the young man.

“That won’t be necessary, My Lady.” She turned to another guard by the door.

“Take Podrick to the rooms above the armoury. That will be his and Brienne’s new quarters.

They both left, leaving her alone with Brienne.

“My Lady, it is good to see you safe in Winterfell.” Brienne was a stiff person, even when completely alone, it seemed.

“It is good to see you as well, Brienne. I had hoped my uncle would be with you, b-”

“My Lady, I’m afraid we were too late for your uncle. When we arrived, Riverrun was set about on all sides by the Lannister army. It is only by the good faith I hold with the Kingslayer that we were allowed entry to deliver our message. However, your uncle was unyielding, to us and the siege, so bade us farewell after smuggling us back out.”

“So he’s either dead or a prisoner.” No point muddying the truth.

“I’m sorry Sansa.” Brienne frowned.

“No matter, at least you are returned to me.” The tears would come later, if at all. Truth be known she had only met her uncle once, many years ago.

“And your brother?”

“He is in his chambers with Ser Davos, drawing up plans to treat with all the Northern lords.” Sansa tried to keep the derision from her voice.

“What of you, my Lady?” Brienne asked.

“I will remain at Winterfell and coordinate provisions for winter and war.”

“Alone?”

“I have you, my sworn sword, Maester Wolkan, and Lord Baelish.” Brienne stiffened at his name.

“Surely you cannot still trust Littlefinger.”

“I have never trusted him, I merely relied on him. That is no longer the case, but he may yet prove useful.”

_ Though in what way, only time will tell. _


	8. The Chainless Maester

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The great game begins in King's Landing.

Qyburn sat in his laboratory, which seemed a lot more spacious since Ser Gregor had been moved out. Still, it suited him well. The lower door opened, and a young child entered. Varys, wherever he was, had been most generous to leave his spy network unattended. As Master of Whispers, and now Hand of the Queen, they had been useful. He spared a glance to the flagstones, where there was still a red mark that could be mistaken for wine. May the gods judge Pycelle justly, the old fool.

Qyburn smiled at the young girl, and beckoned her closer.

“My dear Frances, how’s your mother?” He asked as she crept towards his workbench.

“Recovering quickly m’Lord, thank you.” Qyburn inwardly winced at the false honourific that he’d often mocked in others.

“But of course. Now tell me, how many people did you tell today?”

“Only the one, but I heard him telling others later in the day.” This was excellent news.

"Did they seem to believe what they heard?" That was almost as important as the telling, when it came to spreading rumours. Something Qyburn had learned very early after the sudden inheritance of a vast network of spies and informants, was that information worked both ways. The many links in his vast chain, as he had taken to calling them after Cersei requested that they be more differentiated from the thrice-damned sparrows, could not only be used to gather information. They still had perfectly functioning mouths with which to spread information, true or otherwise. As cunning and wise as he was, Verys had been stunted in his use of his little birds. He had the greatest information dispersion network at his disposal, and he never even knew it.

“Yes, m’lord. Stories of the Imp plotting against his sister are well-liked by people.” This was hardly surprising, as Tyrion had become something of a grumpkin in the markets and taverns of King’s Landing. It had taken little effort to spread this latest tale. After all, it wasn’t a great leap of imagination to think that he had a hand in the terrible tragedy of the Sept. The Green Trial, people were calling it, in the style of the Red and Purple Weddings (not within earshot of any of the City Watch, mind you).

Qyburn reached into a box on one of his workbenches, and plucked a candied plum. He turned around and offered it to the child.

“You’ve done well, my child. Now go before your father wonders where you are.” He brushed her lank hair back from her face, exposing the raised purple on her cheek. A whisper to a goldcloak, and the purple would fade permanently. Frances scurried off, back to her father’s tavern.

Qyburn sat back in his chair, contemplating his new position. Just a few short years ago, he was an unremarkable travelling healer, working on the fringes of the Stark camp. Now, here he was, Hand of the Queen, Master of Whispers, one of the most valuable men in the Seven Kingdoms, perhaps even the known world. And yet, he remained almost completely unknown. He liked it that way though. It played to his advantage, both at court and when outside the Red Keep on unofficial business. In truth, he spent a fair portion of time waiting. Informants came to him at all hours, so he mainly kept to his chambers except for Small Council meetings, and his personal consultations with Her Serene Highness.

As if on cue, the lower door creaked open again, and in came another child.

“What news from the Narrow Sea, my child?” He owed this one nothing, so courtesy was not needed.

“Dragons, Maester Qyburn. Dragons over the Narrow Sea. The Dragon Queen has left Essos, with a half-man at her side.” Well, this was hardly unsurprising. The reports from Slaver’s Bay had stopped telling of dissent, so with her crusade over, Daenerys had evidently gotten bored and decided to try her hand against lions rather than harpies. Tyrion’s appearance was, however, troubling. Cersei’s rationality would be lost at the mention of his name.

“Thank you. If there is nothing else, you may go.” The child ran back out.

_ The Queen must be informed immediately. _ Qyburn thought, as he rose from his chair and ascended the stairs to the door leading further into the Red Keep. The one problem with the placement of his laboratory, was that it took him much longer than was practical to get to his more formal duties, and to his sleeping quarters.

_ Still, it keeps me active. Healthy in body and mind. _ He thought as he climbed the many steps towards the Queen’s chambers. As he approached, he passed Ser Jaime, no doubt on his way back to the barracks after a night of personal consultation with Her Serene Highness. 

As ever, Ser Gregor guarded the door, and as ever, Qyburn passed his creation with only a cursory glance. Cersei may have his loyalty, but Qyburn had something far greater than that. When he crossed the threshold, the Queen was sitting at her desk. She looked up at the sound of the door closing. She rose from her seat, and came towards him. Qyburn bowed before her.

“Your Serene Highness.”

“My Lord Hand.” He rose to look her full in the face. What little warmth there had been when they met was almost gone completely. In its place was a mask of cold indifference, framed by the kept-short golden hair.

“I bring news from the East. It would seem that Daenerys Targaryen makes for Westeros.”

A slight crease of her brow was all that betrayed that she had even heard him.

“A young girl, fleeing warlords and slavery, with three young dragons if you believe the stories. What is she to us?” Cersei turned and walked back to her desk.

“Word is that she has more than just dragons. Half the Iron Fleet, some 7,000 Unsullied, and over 100,000 Dothraki.”

“She is unskilled and without advisors.” She continued with her papers.

“Not so, I’m afraid. If the reports are accurate, she has Ser Jorah Mormont by her side, as well as your brother.” She stopped at that, as he knew she would.

“So not content with murdering our mother, our father, and his niece and nephews, he’s coming to finish us off as well.” Her logic was there, but barely.

“According to my informants, they seem to have dropped anchor in the Stepstones around Lys and Tyrosh.”

“Then she is foolish. She should have continued sailing and struck with surprise. We could have dashed her fleet upon the rocks.” Cersei paused for a moment, before turning to Qyburn.

“Half the Iron Fleet, you say?” Maybe her wits were still with her in some small way.

“The Iron Islands are divided. Balon’s brother claims dominion, but it seems his niece and nephew fled to Essos, along with half the fleet.”

Cersei considered this for a moment, before smiling.

“Send a raven to this brother. Tell him the Queen of the Seven Kingdoms would like an audience with him, to discuss mutual enemies.”

“At once, Your Serene Highness.” Qyburn bowed and left, towards the rookery.

_ And so another player enters the fray. _


	9. The Slayer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam's work at the Citadel begins.

"Those bloody bells!" Sam could hear the other novices yelling from their own quarters. Sam himself had been awake for a while already, as was the case the past few weeks since he arrived in the Citadel.

He pulled his roughspun tunic over his head, and let it fall over him. He knew he had a busy day ahead of him.

When he arrived in the Citadel just over a fortnight ago, he had been put in front of the panel of archmaesters. He remembered the conversation vividly.

_ We expected you three days ago, Samwell Tarly. Why the delay? _

_ Well, I thought, because I was in the area, that I should pay a visit to my family at Horn Hill. _

_ No matter. We were saddened to hear of the passing of Maester Aemon. Yet we understand that you are to replace him? _

_ Those are my orders from the Lord Commander, aye. _

_ Former Lord Commander. Lord Snow has left his post, and now sits at Winterfell. Curious that he got that far without facing retribution. _

_ Well, regardless, his orders still stand, surely? _

_ You will train with us, and forge your chain with the other novices and acolytes. _

_ I was wondering- _

_ Yes, Tarly? _

_ Well, you haven’t addressed the other part of the letter. _

_ You are, of course, referring to the reports of dead men rising north of the Wall. _

_ Not just dead men, White Walkers too. _

_ Yes, we’ve read the letter. What would you have us do? _

_ Forgive me, but if you’ve read the letter, you know what we need to do. _

_ You would have the Citadel divert its energy into finding out about things that may or may not be real, all on the word of a bastard and deserter, the bastard of known traitor Eddard Stark, no less. _

_ Jon Snow is the most honourable man I’ve ever known. _

_ Coming from Castle Black, that isn’t difficult. _

_ Archmaesters, please- _

_ Maester Jonos will escort you to your chamber. You will begin lessons in ravencraft, healing, and mathematics. Due to your apparent experience, you will be allowed to prove yourself almost immediately. _

_ But- _

_ That will be all, Novice Samwell. _

Here he was, two weeks later, with his black iron and yellow gold links in a pouch around his neck, and no closer to learning anything about the Long Night or White Walkers. He had but two hopes among the archmaesters: Ebrose and Marwyn. Archmaester Ebrose was kinder than the others, being the archmaester of healing. He listened to Sam, and seemed to believe him on some level. Archmaester Marwyn, on the other hand, had apparently been spouting the same ‘stories’ as Sam was for years. A hard man, he was the foremost archmaester on the ‘higher mysteries’. Sam had noted his silence when he went before the archmaesters on his arrival.

He had three instruction sessions today: cadaver dissection with Archmaester Ebrose, one-on-one tutoring on the history of the Night’s Watch with Archmaester Perestan, and medicines with Archmaester Sandhu. 

But before those, he had his duties to attend to. For the past week, he had been on latrine duty. The smell still lingered on his tunic, and even Gilly, in her sweet innocence, had mentioned it to him on his evening visits. Latrine duty was always something he had managed to evade at the Wall, on account of his vital role helping an increasingly weary Maester Aemon.

Sam shuffled out the door and into the communal space shared by acolytes and novices alike. The others regarded him with a harshness that he felt was unwarranted. At the Wall, he had been ostracised for his affinity for books over battle, and here it seemed his unique position as slightly older, and a known black brother, created the same atmosphere that he thought he had escaped from.

Still, he had work to do. He climbed the stairs to the archmaester’s chambers, where the beadpans were waiting. He stopped by the cleaning cupboard for the cart, and then headed along the passageway of small, but slightly larger than his, rooms. The fist bedpan was blessedly empty, but that would always remain the minority.

_ So much for the true pursuit of knowledge. _

The next three rooms were full of waste, followed by another empty pot. The next one had sick in it, and the two after had waste. The one after that was shoved further under the bed than normal. He knew this was Archmaester Marywn’s room, and he was known to be difficult, but nor this difficult.

Sam pulled the bedpan out from under the bed. It wasn’t empty, but it wasn’t waste. A small scrap of paper was sat in the middle of the bowl. Sam picked it up and unfolded it.

_ Samwell,  _

_ Winter is coming, the dead are rising, and we need to be ready.  _

_ Come to my study after you've carried out this unfortunate task.  _

_ Marwyn _

Sam folded the note back up and put it in the fold of his sleeve.

_ Well this is promising. _

The rest of his morning duties passed in a blur, thankfully, as he ruminated on the note and what it might mean. Marwyn believed him, but he already half-knew that. This probably meant that Marwyn had a plan, which was more than Sam had been able to come up with in the past fortnight.

As he made his way to the Isle of Ravens, where Archmaester Marwyn’s study was, Sam went over the facts as he knew them, prepared for some sort of interrogation.

The climb to the study seemed to take forever, such was the fear bubbling up in Sam’s belly. He knocked on the door with two short taps, and waited for the reply.

“Enter!” came the gruff voice from inside. Sam opened the door slowly, suddenly transferred back to his first day at Castle Black, a quivering boy far from home and safety.

“You took your time, Tarly.” Marwyn grunted from his chair.

“Apologies, Archmaester, but y-” 

“No matter, Tarly. Y’here now.”

“And why am I here, Archmaester?” Sam stepped over to the desk. It was strewn with parchment, scribbles and incomprehensible writing covering them all.

“The White Walkers are moving. We need to move faster than them.” He stood up, his chain clinking lightly as he moved. The multiple links of Valyrian steel shine, even in the low morning light.

“Your Lord Snow has abandoned Castle Black, meaning we no longer have a strong man at the Wall who has seen them.”

“Jon’s not at the Wall?”

“No. Word is he’s gone after the Bastard of Bolton. That’s not important. What plan do you have down here Tarly?”

“Oh, well, erm, I was thinking if I just read as much as I could and reported back to Jon at the Wall, but now, I’m not so sure.”

“Pah! The Wall may be the first line of defence, but with that way of thinking, it’ll end up being the last!”

“I’m sorry?” Sam was confused. Though he supposed it made a sort of sense.

“There’s a whole seven kingdoms between here and the Wall. If we put all our efforts there, and we fail, then the army of the dead marches south unimpeded.”

“What do you suggest, Archmaester?” There was obviously a path of logic, but Sam was a couple of steps behind.

“We need to panic the people. For most men, lords and smallfolk alike, the Wall is a world away. We need to make them realise that this threat affects them too.”

“What do you want me to do?”

“We need to kill them, and we need to know how. Word is you and your Lord Snow are the only two who have.”

“Dragonglass and Valyrian steel.”

“Then get to researching the two of them.” He fished into his left sleeve, pulling out a key.

“This will get you into the higher library.” He handed it to Sam, who put it in his own sleeve, slightly in awe. He’d been wanting to get in those higher levels since he arrived.

“Thank you Archmaester. I- I’ll get to it immediately.” Sam made to bow.

“Get to it then Tarly!” Marwyn shooed him away.


	10. The Mother of Dragons

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Daenerys makes landfall, and some new allies.

Tyrion was pacing.

Daenerys had quickly learned that this was the way he focused if there was no alcohol nearby. She had ensured that there wasn’t much of that on her ship. She had a peculiar fondness for her Hand, odd as he was.

"Remind me again why we're not attacking with our full force." She broke the silence. Tyrion stopped and turned to her. 

"You can't just sack the city, kill Cersei, sit yourself on the world's most uncomfortable chair and call yourself queen. You tried that with Astapor, Yunkai and Mereen, and it took all of three years to even begin to create stable leadership." She flinched at his brutal candour. At times like this, she almost wished for Jorah's unconditional devotion. Almost. 

_ I am not here to be Queen of the Ashes.  _ She reminded herself. 

"Once Cersei finds out that you've left the Bay of Dragons, she'll defame you as a foreign invader with savages behind her. By landing in a kingdom that already welcomes you, you're proving her wrong from the off. An attack from sky and sea plays right into whatever tale she spins.”

She didn’t know Cersei Lannister, but Tyrion had seen it fit to teach her the ways of the Seven Kingdoms. Varys had played a key role in updating his information, and Yara had told her much of the ways of the Ironborn. Theon had told of the Northmen, of the Starks and Boltons, and Daenerys had sat and listened, studied heraldry, maps and lineages. All this was pivotal to Tyrion’s strategy to make her less and less like a foreign force.

“And why Dorne?” She knew it was the closest geographically, but otherwise she could not see the value.

“The Dornish, under Prince Doran, were in rebellion against the Iron Throne since the death of your brother, niece and nephew. They are also the only army who are unblooded in recent conflicts. The Riverlands are desolate, the North is cold and expansive, and everywhere else had a stake in the war. Dorne remains largely unchanged, and is also the same climate as your Dothraki and Unsullied are used to. With winter here, they’re going to have to get used to the changes fairly quickly.”

“You seem to have given this a lot of thought.” She raised an eyebrow in his direction.

“Someone must.” He smiled, hand absently reaching to touch the pin she’d had made for him. He’d pushed it through the red and black brocade coat she’d had made for him, as befitting the Hand of the last Targaryen. He gave her a quick bow, and walked out of the cabin she had taken as her planning room. Missandei came forward from where she had been standing by the door.

“You know I value your opinion, Missandei.”

“Of course, Your Grace.”

“You know him better than I do, what do you make of this man?”

Missandei considered for a moment, head tilted.

“I fear you could be in his company for many years and still not know him.”

“Diplomatic as always.” Daenerys laughed.

“He’s clever, I’ll give him that, and he knows his worth better than most. But his intentions are honest.”

“I know, you’re right. I’m overanalysing.” Missandei smiled.

“You wouldn’t be the Daenerys I have come to know if you didn’t question everything presented to you.” She had the truth of it, as always.

“Why leave the dragons? Why part me from my children and strongest weapons.”

“His plan is to reduce you as a threat for now.”

“So my enemies underestimate me, and the smallfolk come to love me.”

“It reminds me of Master Kraznys’ negotiations. If he was open to bargaining, he would meet alone, and leave the whip with the trainers. If not, he’d show them the Unsullied, and hold the whip the whole time.”

“Hence why he bore the whip with me. He didn’t see me as a threat, or someone worth his time.”

“You never wanted to compromise with the masters of Yunkai, Astapor or Meereen, so you showed them your strength.”

“I can’t do that with people I seek to win the hearts of.” Daenerys nodded. She was quickly re-learning the ways of conquering, a new language for a new strategy.

There was a knock on the door.

“Enter.” Daenerys called. Theon Greyjoy slipped his head around the door.

“Your Grace, we are nearly at the Planky Town. Once we’ve made our approach, a small company of Unsullied are to escort you, Lord Tyrion, Missandei, Grey Worm and Yara to the new Princess of Dorne.”

“Thank you, Prince Theon.” He flinched at that.

“Just Theon, Your Grace. Please.” With that, he bowed and left. The strange man had become something of a de-facto logistical expert within Daenerys’ advisors and generals. He seemed happy, or as much as he had ever seemed happy to Daenerys.

“Your Grace, we should prepare you for your audience with the Princess.” Missandei gestured towards the door, allowing Daenerys to lead.

She walked to her private cabin, the second largest room after the Captain’s quarters. She opened up the chest with her clothes in, and started to rifle through. 

Missandei entered as she was deciding between her white silk dress, or a black and red doublet she’d had made just before leaving Meereen.

“You are a Targaryen, surely it would be fitting to land in your House colours.” Missandei offered.

“You’re right, of course.” She considered them both.

_ It is expected of me to honour my ancestors. I am a Targaryen first, Daenerys second. _

Daenerys dropped her white silk back into the chest.

“Targaryen it is.” She slipped out of her dark blue travelling dress, and slid her arms into the doublet. As she beckoned Missandei to help her lace up the back, she was suddenly hit with an image of Viserys in a very similar tunic.

_ Is this what our father wore? Will the people see this and be reminded of the Mad King? _

“Stop!” She gasped. She hurriedly ripped her arms out of the sleeves. She turned to face Missandei, eyes on the verge of tears.

“I will not have them thinking I’m my father’s daughter.” She reached for her white silk dress, and stepped into it.

“I knew you would say that.” Missandei smiled to herself.

Soon, Daenerys was in a litter on her way to Sunspear, Tyrion accompanying her, with Missandei and Grey Worm behind them, and Yara and Theon behind them. They arrived at Sunspear quickly enough that the litters don’t overheat, and their group is escorted to the gardens. As she stepped out into the relaxing space filled with lush green shrubs and beautiful, delicate flowers, she was reminded of her childhood in the Free Cities, going from one rich man’s house to another. She remembered the brief reprieves from the Usurper’s cutthroats in their calm courtyards, not dissimilar to the one she was now standing in.

“Forgive me not meeting you at the port, Your Grace. Prying eyes and greedy ears are rife in the Planky Town, but it’s Dorne’s only port.” Daenerys turns towards the new voice, shocked at the simple beauty of the woman flanked by Varys and an old woman she had never seen before.

“I understand, erm…” Daenerys faltered. This face was not one she could place from the descriptions Varys and Tyrion had given her.

“Your Grace, I have the pleasure of introducing you to Allyria Dayne, newly-declared Princess of Dorne, Lady of Starfall and Light of the Morning.” Varys announced, as the party descended the steps.

“Lady Allyria.” Daenerys smiles and extends a hand.

“Your Grace.” Allyria curtsied and kissed the hand.

“Lord Tyrion. I can’t say I’m the least bit surprised that this is in some way your doing.” The old woman spoke at last.

“Right past the formalities as always, Lady Olenna." Tyrion smiled at her.

"Well, when one gets to my age, formality stops having the same meaning." She countered. 

"Lady Olenna Tyrell? The Queen of Thorns?" Tyrion had told her much of this lady, often with a quiet fondness reserved only for Varys and herself. 

"My reputation precedes me," she let out a laugh, "as does yours, Mother of Dragons." Olenna smiled wryly. 

Allyria smiled again. "So here we are, two queens-" 

"Three Queens, thank you very much." Yara stepped forward, her default scowl hardening. 

"Apologies. Three Queens and a princess, ready to overthrow a tyrant." 

"Cersei won't know what hits her." 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the big gap between chapters, I'll try to be more regular from now on.  
> Comments and kudos are all greatly appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Comments, critique, and discussions are welcomed, kudos are greatly appreciated.


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